


Moon River

by choklitcake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Romance, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choklitcake/pseuds/choklitcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of some of the events of Series 3 through the lens of Sherlock's unrequited love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon River

**Author's Note:**

> This work won't make any sense unless you've seen series 3 (so spoilers ahead!). Some recounting of scenes with original work added. Not brit-picked, sorry. Sherlock's completely blinded with love, shame, and guilt. He did everything he could for John, even though he's by no means a perfect human being. Very sad in parts. Please enjoy.

Sherlock Holmes' eyes were the color of two silver coins left out in a ray of sunlight. Currently they were staring unblinkingly into the face of a man that had graced their presence so often, and yet not enough. Never enough.

  
John's foot tapped idly. "Sherlock."

Sunlight was filtering in through the kitchen windows, cutting through the air like some sort of golden butter knife. Dust from 221b bobbed and weaved in its wake. Sherlock had just dropped an eyeball into his tea.

  
 _Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life, and I want to be up there with the two people I love and care about most in the world. That is Mary Morstan, and... you._

  
...is what John had just said. Now he was waiting patiently for an answer while a rip ran through the fabric of Sherlock's mind.

  
Best man. Best friend. John.

  
Sherlock was vaguely aware that when it came to matters pertaining to himself, his deduction skills were woefully underdeveloped. He tried to pull his thoughts out of a mental ditch, but all he got were spinning wheels.

  
John was expecting an answer, but Sherlock was absolutely unable to respond.

  
"Yeah it's getting a bit scary now," John said after another thirty seconds.

  
Sherlock inhaled sharply and swallowed. "S..so, in fact... you mean..."

  
He sounded utterly ridiculous.

  
"Yes," John said encouragingly.

  
"I'm your... best friend?"

  
"Yeah. Of course you are." John's voice was soft. "'Course. You're my best friend."

  
Sherlock had known that he was a friend of sorts, but...

  
He picked up his mug and took a sip, the eyeball forgotten.

  
~~~~~

  
 _"The systems are in place. It should all be taken care of."_

_  
"Wonderful," Sherlock said gaily. He didn't relish the idea of being away from Baker Street and John, but his hands were quite tied at the moment. The Work was The Work; it was a part of him, he couldn't ignore it.  John would understand. Things would be so boring while Sherlock was away, John would be delighted to see him as soon as he returned. It would take a few months at the most, he reckoned, before he was back home with a bucket load of fascinating new stories to share with his companion._

_  
It took him a moment to register Mycroft's silence._

_  
"What?" he demanded._

_  
Mycroft, looking a bit weary as usual, drew in a breath._

_  
"Do you really think he's going to wait for you?"_

_  
Sherlock made a face._

_  
"Of course he's going to wait for me, he has no choice. There'll be nothing for him while I'm gone."_

_  
Mycroft worked his jaw a bit during another silence. Sherlock glared at him._

_  
"I simply mean... perhaps you should make sure you're taking all variables into account."_

_  
"Yes, and perhaps you shouldn't open your mouth if it isn't to stuff a pastry into it," Sherlock said as he left the room._

  
~~~~~

  
After Sherlock had agreed to be his Best Man and John had gone, Sherlock sat in his chair for four hours, three minutes, and thirty-six point four seconds before giving in (hateful!) and calling Mycroft. His brother picked up on the fourth ring, waiting just long enough for Sherlock to begin to have second thoughts about the decision to call.

  
"What is it, Sherlock?"

  
To his surprise and utter despair, Sherlock found himself unable to speak for the second time that day. He tried to move his diaphragm but his throat seemed to have closed off access to his vocal chords.

  
"Ahh," came the pompous disembodied voice through the receiver. "So he asked you to be his best man, did he?"

  
Sherlock pressed his lips into a fine line and began to breathe heavily into the phone in spite of himself.

  
"I... what do I do?" His voice was thick and pleading, dripping with unspoken requests. _Please, Mycroft, don't be cruel. Please just help me and shut up. Please don't gloat._ His eyes darted around the flat, searching.

  
For the umpteen thousandth time, he heard his older brother scoff at him.

  
"Honestly, Sherlock, you come to me at a time like this? You really think that I, of all people, am the man to run to when it comes to..." He paused slightly, and Sherlock didn't need powers of deduction to tell he was curling his lips in disdain, “... _arbitrary sentimental appointments._ "

  
Sherlock felt his face flush. He looked down at his hand; it trembled a bit.

  
"I... I simply..."

  
"What is it, Sherlock? Thought you wouldn't attend the wedding? Did you think you could manage to keep yourself out of it? You are, you know, the _second_ most important person on Earth to him."

  
Sherlock bit his lip and searched the walls of his flat for answers, something tangible to tell him what to do, how to feel, how to begin to grasp the thoughts that flowed from the tap of his mind. He didn't feel the urge to cry but somehow his eyes were beginning to water.

  
"You'd do anything for him, correct?"

  
Sherlock was hot with shame and regret at Mycroft's voice. "Why did I bother to call someone like you," he seethed into his mobile, fingers poised to end call. But before he could, his brother spoke again.

  
"As I have told you before... and as you _know_ , Sherlock... caring is not an advantage. But if you find that in fact you do, you'll be wise to stay out of it."

  
"He asked me to be his best man, and I'm going to do it."

  
"Fine. But stay. Out of it."

  
Sherlock's mind was climbing up the walls of his head, searching for a way to articulate his reproach.

  
There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line before Mycroft began to muse, seemingly out loud to himself.

  
"Perhaps... this is your penance of sorts."

  
Sherlock's jaw trembled and his thumb slammed _end call_ before he threw his phone across the flat.

  
~~~~~

  
As the days wore on, the burning shame and regret of the call dissipated a bit. John still came over regularly to help out on cases, and things seemed to be relatively okay, even if Sherlock's nights were lonelier.

  
"Hurry up, Sherlock! " John called down the hall.

  
"Oh relax, we've plenty of time," came Sherlock's cheeky reply. "After all, the orchestra can't play without their undercover conductor." And with a flourish, he whisked himself into the sitting room, dressed in a tux complete with brandished conductor's baton.

  
Sherlock loved making an entrance, and what's more, he was damn good at it. He smiled broadly at John, his full lips pulling away into a positively dashing wolfish grin.

  
"You look..." John paused, his lips open and grasping for the next word.

  
Sherlock couldn't deduce him. His eyes skittered around the room and then back to his blond doctor. "I look?"

  
John smiled. "Quite nice."

  
Sherlock felt a soft glow in his cheeks. He wouldn't deny that he filled out a tux quite nicely, but he always felt his best dressed in John's compliments.

  
"Do you... really think so?"

  
"Yeah," John said brightly. "You'll have to help me pick out one like it for the wedding."

  
Sherlock Holmes was very good at going incognito when need be, and he hoped the same for his emotions.

  
~~~~~

  
During the day, Sherlock could usually occupy himself well enough to feel alright. He really wanted a smoke more than ever these days, but he somehow managed to come up with ways to get his mind off of it. He knew that smoking would make John angry, and not the Good Angry.

  
But nights... nights were a bit more difficult.

  
At night, Sherlock's thoughts always took a turn for the worse. Sadness, desperation, loneliness- everything seemed to bite twice as hard at night. Companionable evenings spent with John, watching telly, playing board games, or simply reading by the fire... those were all gone now. Just intangible memories to pull out of his hard drive. Each time he chose to retrieve one, he was injected with a volatile cocktail of emotion, and it was all he could think about.

  
It was agony.

  
Sherlock was at the end of his rope.

  
This was one such night.

  
He sat in his chair, thinking about it for a little over three hours, eyes boring into the empty armchair in front of him, before he could bring himself to do it.

  
Hands trembling slightly, face red with shame, puffing on a cigarette, he reached for his laptop and googled _man I love marrying someone else_.

  
Sherlock spent the next hour and a half aimlessly scrolling through results, his eyes taking it in but his brain seemingly coated in Teflon. He pored over advice columns, religious self-help websites, and poorly-spelled sob stories on yahoo answer forums before he happened upon a Q  & A of quotes about love, unrequited and otherwise.

  
 _Q. What is the meaning of Selfless Love?_

_  
A. Selfless love means to love regardless of your personal needs. You love whole-heartedly without loving yourself, without any personal gain. It is the opposite of selfish love. Perhaps this is what love means after all: sacrifice and selflessness. It does not mean hearts and flowers and a happy ending, but the knowledge that another's well-being is more important than your own._

  
Sherlock meditated on this for a while, nostrils flared and brows furrowed. He had never heard anything quite like it. He was the first to admit that he was a man of stunted emotional intelligence, but even so...

  
...it felt... right. Very painful, but very right.

  
He snuffed out his cigarette before removing his violin from its case and began to play a song he hadn't played in a very long while. His brows didn't unfurrow.

  
~~~~~

  
 _Moon River, wider than a mile_

_  
I'm crossing you in style some day_

_  
Dream maker, you heart breaker_

_  
Wherever you're going, I'm going your way_

_Two drifters, off to see the world_

_  
There's such a lot of world to see_

_  
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting, round the bend_

_  
My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me_

  
~~~~~

  
"You know, I was discussing with Mary," John said in between bites of linguine. Sherlock had been treating him to dinner a lot more often lately, but if John noticed, he hadn't mentioned it. Sherlock sipped his wine and flicked his grey eyes up at his companion. He let John's gaze suck him in until he felt thoroughly warmed all over; then he skittered his own gaze back into his wine glass.

  
"Mmm?"

  
"Well, you know, wedding plans and stuff."

  
In an effort to distract himself and be _selfless_ , Sherlock had begun to help John and Mary plan the wedding. Mary's bridesmaids had proven to be quite uninvolved, which was just as well, because Sherlock had found the planning process to be quite enjoyable once he had been able to compartmentalize it from his feelings. As anyone who was close to him could tell, Sherlock was a man of details, and details at a wedding are everything. He was actually... dare he say it... having _fun_.

  
"Yes," he said matter-of-factly. "Sydney Opera House. Pound cake with marzipan and royal icing. Bergamot with citrus notes."

  
"Bridesmaids in purple," John added.

  
"Lilac."

  
"Right. Look, Mary was wondering..." John paused and looked up, a bit sheepish. His expression was soft and it made Sherlock positively ache with some sort of nondescript want. "Well, _we_ were wondering..."

  
Sherlock furrowed his brow.

  
"Okay, _I_ was wondering... if there's any way you could... you know," John tried to motion with his hands to illustrate his point. "Play. At the reception."

  
Sherlock tried to nonchalantly put his fork down but it clattered somehow regardless.

  
"My violin."

  
John smiled, blue eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. It didn't matter how many times Sherlock got to see his face make that expression, it would always cause his pulse to quicken. "Yeah," the doctor said softly, shrugging. "I don't know what. Just... something nice. I thought it'd be nice." His voice was warm, intimate.

  
Sherlock hoped that he didn't look deflated, or if he did, that John misconstrued it to be stage fright or some such thing. He pursed his lips a bit.

  
"Of course. If that's what you want." He fought to keep his voice even and unaffected.

  
"Yeah. I'd like that a lot, Sherlock."

  
"Would it be alright if I composed?"

  
John smiled broadly at him and Sherlock's heart did a little somersault.

  
"That'd be... Yes. Please. That'd be lovely, Sherlock."

  
Sherlock had never quite felt so torn in his life.

  
~~~~~

  
There was, buried deep within the confines of 221b, an old, fragile box with a rusty hinge. As a boy, Sherlock had tried his hand at carving various flora into the soft wooden exterior, mostly ferns and ivy. He spent hours trying to get each leaf and tendril just right, studying their forms in his mother's garden. There was a fairly good rendition of a daffodil in one corner of the lid that Sherlock had always been especially proud of. Over time, dust had crept up and settled into the nooks and crannies of his childhood art, creating a fine fuzzy coating that couldn't be blown or wiped away no matter how hard he tried.

  
John had spied the box one time and inquired about it.

  
"Mmm. Childhood," Sherlock had mumbled, as though that explained everything.

  
Now, clad in his pajamas and dressing gown, hair a ruffled mess, Sherlock crouched over the small Pandora's Box and lifted the latch. After rummaging around through the various papers and mementos tucked away inside, he finally found what he sought: a piece of staff paper, filled three-quarters of the way down with handwritten musical notes, titled _Waltz for John Watson_.

  
He could hear it in his head as he read the notes, and although it was far from finished, it already held a lifetime of memories. He could hear the glorious part where John was angry with him, voice raised, fingers pointing and scolding. He heard the parts where John saved his life, the arpeggios of his courage. He could hear the part where John was laughing with him, the soaring peaks of his lips parting to let out rich peals of laughter, the parts where his entire face lit up whatever he happened to be looking at. And there was also the part where Sherlock was sick and John took care of him that one time, gentle hands taking the pulse on his neck and temperature in his flushed cheeks.

  
All of these moments in time that had gripped his insides unmercifully, he had been able to wield and hone them into a musical transmutation. But it was still unfinished.

  
Cheeks flushed once again, Sherlock went to fetch a pencil.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock and John sat on a park bench. It was mild, but Sherlock still wore his magnificent coat.

  
"So why don't you see him anymore?"

  
"Who?"

  
"Your previous commander, Sholto." Sodding man had been swimming around Sherlock's head for days now, ever since he had read his name on an invitation. John had obviously thought enough about him that he had decided to keep him a secret. This drove Sherlock positively mad. He had to get more data. He had to know how it ended.

  
"Previous commander?"

  
"I meant ex," Sherlock snapped.

  
"'Previous' suggests that I currently have a commander," John pointed out. "Which I don't."

  
"'Course you don’t," Sherlock said, although they both knew better.

  
~

  
"You know it won't alter anything, right? Me and Mary getting married?"

  
Sherlock endeavoured but was unable to keep from fidgeting.

  
"We'll still be doing all this," John said. Sherlock's hands, currently folded on his knees, tightened their grip on one another.

  
"Good."

  
"If you were worried," John clarified.

  
"I wasn't worried."

  
John turned to look straight ahead, surveying the green landscape.

  
"Hmm. The thing about Mary... she has completely turned my life around."

  
Sherlock quietly got up from the bench. _Selfless_ wasn't going to work today.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock sat on the sofa. Was it a sofa? It might have been a chair. Or a bed. No, not a bed, because John was next to him.

  
John would never be in bed next to him. Would he? What would it mean if he was? Maybe Sherlock would try sex. He was pretty sure John was the only man he would deign to try sex with.

  
He tried really hard to think. Really hard. Everything was so hard now. Thinking used to be so easy and now John was getting married to someone Sherlock somehow didn't hate and it bothered him so much that he agreed to take John out for a stag night and now he was, by his calculations, slightly tipsy on a bed with John.

  
Sofa.

  
Where were the chairs? All the chairs. There used to be more. No, that was wrong. Less chairs. There used to be one more human taking up a chair, so technically less chairs. Sherlock was a genius.

  
"I don't... I don't date all that much."

  
Female voice. Wait, a woman was sitting across from him. Oh yes. Client. Sherlock tried really hard to focus. Must focus. Must solve case. Must impress John.

  
"And, he seemed... nice, you know? We seemed to automatically connect."

  
Oh yes. Sherlock knew this one well. The two of them, they did seem to automatically connect. And John was, in fact, quite nice, even if Sherlock wasn't.

  
"We had one night... dinner, such interesting conversation. It was lovely."

  
It was, wasn’t it? It was so lovely. John sitting in all the chairs. At the time when he sat in all the chairs. Sherlock's eyes were drifting shut.

  
"To be honest, I'd loved to have gone further, but... I thought no, this is special. Let's take it slowly."

  
Perhaps, thought Sherlock, that was the problem. Perhaps he was taking things too slowly. Perhaps if he were just a bit faster... perhaps if he solved this case really fast, John would change his mind and stay in all the chairs.

  
"We exchanged numbers, he said he'd get in touch, and then..."

  
The hand Sherlock was leaning on slipped from his leg, jolting him awake. No! Must solve the case. Client. Victim. Cardigan. Focus on client. John, a warm presence beside him. The pleasant searing of the handprint still felt on his leg through his trousers where John steadied himself earlier. Focus on client.

  
Her hair, unkempt. Her right shoe worn down more than her left, walking with an uneven gait. Quite plain-looking. Owns two catigans. Cardigans. Cats. Nervous, recently began drinking decaf coffee.

  
If he solved this, perhaps John would realize he was making a terrible decision. Maybe if he solved this and wrote the answer in the waltz, John would be able to decode it somehow. Then he'd know and he wouldn’t go and fall in love with some silly woman whom even Sherlock couldn't bring himself to hate. Somehow that made it crueler. The twist of the fife. Knife.

  
He didn't understand where it all went wrong. He was doing the selfless thing, no self involved. So why did the self hurt so much? Wasn't being selfless supposed to make the self feel better?

  
The client's face began to crumple.

  
"Maybe... he wasn't quite as keen as I was, but..."

  
Tears stung Sherlock's eyes and he felt his hot face grow hotter.

  
"I just thought... at least he'd call to say that we were finished."

  
Sherlock let out a little gasp and immediately pressed his lips together. Willing himself not to sob, he mashed his mouth into his hand.

  
~~~~~

  
He'd batted it back and forth in his head, but eventually he decided to record himself playing _Waltz for John_. And Mary. Sherlock was trying so hard to be selfless. _Waltz for John and Mary_. But really, for John. When Sherlock put his earbuds in and listened to it, really listened, he could hear every nuance of the song, every quiver of the string, the weeping of the notes. He might as well have written notes of his own blood on staff paper made of his own skin. The waltz was a part of him and as such, it had to be perfect. So he recorded himself so he could concentrate on the sound unfettered to be sure of its perfection.

  
The night before the wedding, John stopped by. Sherlock was idly scratching at his violin, slowly, in his chair in front of the fire. He looked as though he were in a trance.  
"Um. Hi." John's voice was soft, but it managed to cut through Sherlock's thoughts all the same. He looked up and smiled.

  
"John." Sherlock hopped up and walked over to him. "Just putting the finishing touches on your waltz." He stood in front of John now, grey eyes as unguarded as they'd ever been. One good thing to be said about this selfless lark: it forced Sherlock to let his guard down. Almost surrender. He looked John in the eyes and felt the familiar warmth curling about his chest.

  
Just the two of them, this one last night.

  
<i>Surrender</i>. He smiled reflexively; he couldn't help it.

  
"Waltz?" John asked, surprised.

  
"Would you like to hear?" Sherlock's voice was soft, intimate. Loving.

  
John's smile made Sherlock's heart clench in his chest. After a little pause, he said "Yeah."

  
So Sherlock began to play _Waltz for John and Mary_. He played it from the deepest of depressions to the highest peaks of euphoria and back again. All the old parts were there, but now he could play the newer parts, the parts he added recently that mortified him. The parts where his soul was steeped in John, the way water is made cloudy and more delicious by tea. He played his violin, the strings vibrating on the frequency of John, with all his heart and all his might until he thought his mitochondria might be transcribing John. He played the part of the melody where John saved him, his heart climbing higher, ever higher, spinning off into dizzying fractals. Sherlock's favorite part, though, was the part where he was a tightly-sewn seam and John came along, mercifully, and violently ripped him apart. Here, right _here_ , this part of the song, Sherlock was asbestos, heat-resistant and natural, and John was ripping him out in great handfuls, the shimmering fibres flying and twisting into the atmosphere where they'd be vaporised by John's heat. He could see himself in his mind's eye, floating, free-falling at John's mercy. Sherlock was dust, great big gobs of messy dust, a thick layer over everything, and John was walking by, stirring him up so that the particles danced and twirled in the sunlight John cast.

  
And finally, Sherlock played the part where he came back, and John had moved on. Even though it seared him, ate him alive from the inside out, Sherlock loved him enough to play it. Sherlock was selfless enough to play it.

  
When he was through, really through, he dropped his violin and slowly opened his eyes.

  
John fought hard to blink back tears.

  
"That was..." He couldn't finish. After a few deep breaths, he said, "Sorry. A bit emotional."

  
There was a time when Sherlock would have ridiculed such a statement.

  
He was such a better man now.

  
~

  
After some whiskey (just a small bit--after the stag night they'd had, they were a bit weary) and a game of cards, when emotions weren't quite so high, John brought up the waltz again.

  
"Really, Sherlock. It's lovely. You're an amazing composer, you know."

  
Sherlock felt a pleasant heat in his cheeks.

  
"Thank you."

  
"But I was just thinking... they don't exactly teach you to waltz in the army, do they." John was smiling ruefully into his empty glass.

  
Of course John didn' t know how to waltz. Glaringly obvious, but Sherlock had been so preoccupied recently that he hadn't thought of it. He was going to go up there and make a fool of himself and his new wife in front of everyone.

  
Unless...

  
Sherlock's heart sped up.

  
He could teach John here in the flat.

  
"If you wanted... I could teach you."

  
John looked up at him.

  
"You know how to waltz?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock smiled.

  
"A bit."

  
John huffed out a chuckle. "Of course. Of course you do." He looked squarely at the detective, his face more open than it had been all night. "You love to dance."

  
Sherlock felt more lovely heat throughout his body. His smile got even wider. John knew him so well... and what's more, John accepted him. It was a feeling Sherlock hadn't known until he'd met him.

  
"Want me to teach you?" He put his violin away and got out his iPod.

  
"I don't know..."

  
Sherlock would teach John to waltz, to hold another person close and dance with her on his wedding day. He knew it wasn't entirely _selfless_ , but in the back of his mind, Sherlock was also aware that this evening he was standing on a precipice. The wedding was going to change everything, regardless of whether he acknowledged it outwardly or not, regardless of whether John claimed it would or not, and suddenly the finality of it all hit him. John hadn't lived with him since he returned from the dead, but Sherlock knew that he could expect his companion to visit less and less, his visits becoming rarer and more perfunctory as his new wife and home tugged him in another direction. John, dropping in on a rainy Tuesday, running up the stairs on a Saturday afternoon, bringing him take-away on a Friday night... soon it would all be nothing more than a ghost of a memory, a haunting presence to follow Sherlock barefoot throughout the lonely, empty flat.

  
Realization sank in that he had, in his adult years, finally tasted happiness before having it swiftly yanked away from him.

  
"John," he said far more desperately than he meant to, "we've one night."

  
One corner of John's mouth slowly curled into a half-smile.

  
"You're right. We're out of time. Teach me to waltz. But let's close the curtains, eh?"

  
Sherlock clicked his iPod into the dock and _Waltz for John and Mary_ filled the room once more.

  
But before Sherlock could even turn to face him, John cleared his throat.

  
"Sherlock, this is lovely but... perhaps is there another waltz we could dance to?" Sherlock didn't turn around. "It's just... this song is really special, you know? I'd like to save it for tomorrow. If that's alright."

  
Sherlock's eyes searched the air in front of him before he clicked through the menus on his iPod to another waltz. _Moon River_.

  
"Of course." Sherlock turned around to face his doctor. Ears ringing, heart thumping wildly in his chest, he put a hand out. When John took it, his small, rough hand in Sherlock's large, soft one, a tingle radiated all up and down his arm. Once, on a case, he had gotten a zap from a mildly electrified fence; this felt similar, except far more pleasant.

  
Sherlock pressed his luck and took John's other hand to put on his waist.

  
"Here. Follow my lead first and then I'll follow yours." Sherlock hesitated. "Just... imagine I'm Mary."

  
And like that, with _Moon River_ on repeat, they began to waltz.

  
It took a short while for John to get the hang of it, but once he did, Sherlock let him take the lead. The flat was spinning around him as he danced in John's arms, the world falling away into nothing but trivialities as reality was sublimated into just the two of them, their warm bodies, John's breath and eyelashes and his lips oh-so-close. Sherlock dared to look him in the eye and felt his skin prickle when John looked back. Time became elastic, dragging on and snapping back concurrently, and for the first time Sherlock found himself wondering if perhaps the rest of the world actually knew something he didn't.

  
When John collapsed into his chair, exhausted, Sherlock was still keyed up; he poked at the fire a bit. He shook his leg and tapped his fingers against his mouth, a gnawing uncertainty taking bites out of his insides.

  
John fell asleep and Sherlock didn't wake him until nearly midnight, instead choosing to sit across from him and silently watch the shadows of flames lick and curl around his companion's lovely face.

  
~~~~~

  
 _Moon River, wider than a mile_

_  
I'm crossing you in style someday_

_  
Dream maker, you heart-breaker_

_  
Wherever you're going I'm going your way_

_Two drifters off to see the world_

_  
There's such a lot of world to see_

_  
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting round the bend_

_  
My Huckleberry friend, Moon River, and me._

  
~~~~~

  
John had been gone for quite some time when the realization came to Sherlock that he should probably try and get a bit of sleep. He didn't want to look bleary-eyed in all of the pictures he was sure to get caught in. His puffy eyes didn't need to get any puffier.

  
He had a bit of trouble washing up. His hands were still tingling.

  
He trudged into bed at two AM but tossed and turned until five, when he gave up and went out to the sofa, staring ahead unseeingly in the quiet darkness.

  
Of course, Sherlock was quite good at doing absolutely nothing; he spent about a third of his time in a somewhat catatonic state, completely inwardly focused. But this was different than what he was used to, and far more uncomfortable. It felt an awful lot like Before.

  
Being selfless was really difficult.

  
It took him until about eight to work up the courage to begin to imagine.

  
~

  
 _When Sherlock put out his hand, John took it but didn't close the gap until Sherlock pulled him in to closed position. Sherlock's hyper-sensitive senses crackled and sharpened to a point with John in such close proximity, and as his doctor embraced him about the waist, his eyes darted around the room. Everyone was there. Molly, Lestrade, even Mycroft was watching. Perfect._

_  
Waltz for John Watson began to play and Sherlock's heart fluttered fantastically in his chest as John led him flawlessly. His vision blurred at the edges and when he leaned in closer, smelling John's hair and moving his hand lower to touch John's hip, he could feel the Browning tucked into the waistband of his companion's trousers._

_  
Only John would waltz Sherlock to the moon and back with a gun in his trousers. No one else would dare to get near Sherlock Holmes tonight. There was nothing for it: Sherlock was so madly, desperately in love._

  
~

  
Sherlock had been waltzing for nearly an hour when Mrs Hudson walked in with tea. He had been imagining with so much force that he had actually not heard her coming up the stairs. She caught him mid two-step in the imaginary arms of a blond army doctor.

  
Mortified and humiliated, he told her to shut up before she had even spoken.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock was standing in the reception hall when he saw John walk up and salute another man.

  
"So that's him," he mused to Mary. "Major Sholto." The name still felt strange and offensive on his lips.

  
"Uh-huh," replied Mary.

  
Sherlock watched intently as John spoke to his old acquaintance; he was leaning in, nodding enthusiastically, treating the man with the utmost reverence and respect. Since John had only mentioned the commander in passing but had glossed over details, Sherlock had obviously grossly underestimated how much this other man meant to him.

  
He felt a very familiar stab of jealousy and below that, despair that John didn't trust him as well as he thought he had.

  
"If they're such good friends," he asked Mary before he could think better of it, "why does he barely even mention him?"

  
"He mentions him all the time to me. Never shuts up about him!" Mary said, sounding surprised.

  
"About _him?_ "

  
"Mmm-hmm."

  
Sherlock began to think of methods he could use to quantify and calculate the ratio of time John spent talking about Major Sholto vs. Sherlock Holmes as his eyes stabbed daggers across the room. More jealousy, white and hot, coated the inside of his head. Clearly Mary had gotten the two of them mixed up. If there was a useful reason for John to yammer on about some washed-up ghost from yesteryear, Sherlock was unable to identify it, and if Sherlock Holmes was unable to identify it, it must not exist.

  
Mary sipped her wine and made a face.

  
"Ugh, I chose this wine? It's bloody awful!"

  
Sherlock chose to ignore her and instead asked, "This was definitely _him_ that he talked about?"

  
"Mmm-hmm."

  
Apparently Sherlock had made a slight miscalculation. _Very glad to see you, Sir!_ he saw John say across the room.

  
"I've never even heard him say his name."

  
"He says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met," Mary said in a hushed tone.

  
Sherlock didn't care how many lives this Sholto man might have saved during his time in the armed forces; right now he didn't care for him much at all.

  
" _He_ is? _He's_ the most unsociable...?" the jealous beast inside of him blabbed before he could stop it. "Ah. That's why he's bouncing around him like a puppy." Truly, Sherlock found the whole thing disgraceful. Didn't John have any idea how he looked, trailing behind taller men with his big blue eyes? He had half a mind to march right up there and tell him as much.

  
"Oh Sherlock!" Mary exclaimed, grabbing his arm chummily. "Neither of us were the first, y'know."

  
Sherlock wanted very much to go insert himself into their conversation, maybe quite literally waltz in between the two of them, but then he remembered: _selfless_.

  
"Stop smiling," he barked at Mary, then stalked off in the other direction.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock steeled himself and played Waltz for John and Mary for the newlyweds, his face grim and blank. He wished he could say that being able to see the look on John's face was worth it, but he really couldn't.

  
Sherlock couldn't find a dance partner; he looked around frantically for someone to notice him but no one cared to. He felt completely at sea. John was dancing cheek-to-cheek with someone who was decidedly not Sherlock Holmes.

  
The detective decided it was best to head home.

  
~

  
Sherlock had seen John kiss Mary many times before, a little peck here or there, but somehow at the wedding it was different. Their kisses shared as bride and groom were deeper, hungrier, a bit more intimate, and Sherlock hoped no one noticed his eyes lingering on the happy newlyweds, fixating on what John's lovely thin lips might feel like, adjusting for the angle and trajectory and how swollen Sherlock's own lips might be at time of contact.

  
Now, as he lay on his back in bed in the lonely cocoon of his room, his traitorous mind wandered back to John's kisses. The dark stillness of the flat cast a startling contrast from the strobe lights and musical merriment of the reception he left behind, although his bedroom was cast in a soft glow from a tiny nightlight Sherlock had shamefully taken to leaving plugged into the wall outlet in the hallway after he returned to live at 221b alone (not because he was frightened of the dark, of course, but because it gave the illusion that someone else was home).

  
Sherlock knew the lines on John's lovely face by heart; if given a blank outline of John's head and a fine point marker, he could fill them all in from memory depending on what expression they were making. This of course included the line of his lips, right _there_. What did their kisses feel like? Sherlock had seen them, but hadn't felt them. Although he was a daring man, he hadn't been able to work up the nerve to dupe John into kissing him for a case (it would've felt cheap, anyway). Once, when John was still living at Baker Street, several years ago now, John had come in from a pub crawl and had passed out drunk on the sofa. Sherlock hadn't gone with him (he wasn't much of a drinker and besides, there were _people_ in pubs) but had kept an eye on him from across the room in his chair. He watched the rise and fall of John's chest as the doctor huffed out shallow breaths through those parted lips, and found he had an urge to touch. He crept closer and closer, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, until at the last second he lost his nerve and detoured off to his room for the night.

  
Sherlock didn't know what John's lips felt like in any context; he could only imagine.

  
 _Imagine:_ Being kissed by John. Being rendered unaware of his surroundings, his senses plugged up with John, his scent, his taste, his touch, even his sight. If John kissed him and Sherlock dared to open his eyes, he literally wouldn't be able to see anything but John. It'd be as though John were holding Sherlock hostage from the outside world.

  
And what were those lips up to now? John and Mary, off this very night on their Sex Holiday. John would strip off his suit and his pants, his naked body climbing on top of his new wife to mount her, his strong legs and arms pushing her down on the bed, his scent all around her. They knew now that Mary was pregnant, which meant that John probably wouldn't bother using a condom.

  
Sherlock felt an overwhelming heat fan throughout his body. Of course he wasn't an idiot, and had a lot of theoretical knowledge on sex, but it seemed that when the matter pertained to himself, he could never get it to not overwhelm him.

  
 _John... in this bed... his gun in the nightstand drawer, ready and waiting for action..._

  
...his lips on Sherlock's, his hands grasping and pulling at his hair, his chest and arms all around him so he had absolutely no way out...

  
Would John try and penetrate him? Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd like that. Maybe. He'd be willing to try it at least, if John would just come back to stay with him. He tried to imagine what that could be like...

  
...the heat, the push-pull, the feeling of another entity inside of his own body. The look on John's face, the redness and heat in his cheeks, the sweat coating his greying blond hair, the breath on Sherlock's face and the hands on his hips as he was held in place, forced to surrender...  
Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned over onto his side in his bed. He turned on the lamp and caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. He was flushed and feral-looking. His crotch was hot and hard.

  
Turning out the light again ( _too much stimulation!_ ), he turned over onto his stomach and rutted so slightly against the bed, but didn't really get anywhere before his consciousness was mercifully ripped from him.

  
~

  
 _Everyone was worried about him. He couldn't figure out why. They said his heart was giving out. It was palpitating.  
Sherlock looked around the room. Lay down, they said. Let us fix you. Your heart's giving out. You need help. John, other doctors. Mrs Hudson in a corner, looking on. Let them do their work, dear, she was saying. They’re doctors. They know what they're doing._

_  
Sherlock felt several pairs of hands push him back down to the floor. Your heart's giving out. Can't you feel the palpitations? Can't you tell something's wrong? They began to thump on different pulse points with their hands. His wrist, his jugular. John began to thump on his chest.  
We have to restart your heart, Sherlock. Just relax._

  
Sherlock awoke. His heart was beating normally.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock hadn't been in touch with John for over three weeks. They had texted a few times, kicking around plans that had never solidified. It didn't help that there wasn't much action on the consulting detective front lately, either.

  
Maybe John needed a case to have a reason to spend time with Sherlock. Perhaps Sherlock on his own didn't hold his interest.

  
 _You know it won't alter anything, right? Me and Mary getting married._

  
Sherlock stalked over to John's easy chair and kicked it so hard it fell backwards. Then he went to the window and lit a cigarette.

  
~~~~~

  
He hadn't pulled it to the forefront in a long time, but the thought was always swimming below the murky surface.

  
He had hoped it wouldn't get this bad, but he knew the possibility was there and very real.

  
Sherlock knew that John and Mary lived next door to a woman whose son had a drug problem.

  
He picked up his phone and scrolled through the texts. The last thing he texted John was a hatefully desperate-sounding

  
 _Stop by for dinner? Could be dangerous. -SH_

  
That was a week ago, and there was no reply as of yet.

  
He could feel his resolve slipping.

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock Holmes' teeth were small and white and slightly askew, but they didn't protrude and they fit his face nicely. Right now they were being ground together inside of his mouth. He could feel them, tiny peaks and valleys rumbling and sliding against each other, casting sparks like flint against steel. Cold. Metallic. His jaw, riveted to the rest of his face. Aluminum and iron, nickel and tin.

  
The Tin Man. Born without a heart only to miraculously be rewarded one as a consolation prize.

  
He laid in the crack house, a pile of dirty rags with dark, curly, greasy hair, on top of a putrid mattress, brain addled and lost in a fugue of glorious sensation. He slid his hands around on top of the blankets, fingers grasping, hands twitching, letting neurons fire and signals fight their way up to his drug-infused brain. If he squeezed his eyes tight enough, he could get them to reflexively water; it was a sad pantomime of tears, but at least it made him feel like he was trying.

  
It occurred to him that he was drooling but it didn't really matter, after all. Just transport.

  
He had another several hours before he projected that John would show up.

  
All he had to do until then was simply pass the time.

  
He didn't so much climb the stairs as he slid up them. His body was like jelly that hadn't quite set, smooth globules spilling swiftly from one container to another, except upwards against gravity as he went up the staircase. Perhaps if he kept climbing he'd spill over into John's arms.

  
Up, up, up to the top, where his magnificent smooth jelly-foot kicked open the door to the roof, where he currently stood. Again. But instead of looking down, he looked up this time.

  
Sherlock saw the moon, its magnificent cheesy face beaming down upon him.

  
There was no river in sight.

  
~~~~~

  
 _It was a beautiful sunny day, a lovely time to be back at his parents' country house. He always acted sullen and churlish while visiting, but the secret truth of it was that Sherlock loved where his parents lived. His childhood home._

_  
Sentiment._

_  
He stood on a small hill, surveying the area. If he flapped his arms, he began to levitate; as he turned his body like a rudder, he'd move in one direction or the other. Flying. He'd tried it out a little bit before and had grown accustomed to it. It felt amazing. No one else was able to do it. No one else knew what it was like._

_  
He flapped his arms and ascended, not so high, but high enough to see better through branches and over roads and fences. There was John, walking with some men Sherlock didn't recognize, down the road some feet away. He couldn't be sure but he got a feeling they were intending to inspect something, he didn't know what._

_  
Sherlock had to get John's attention, but he knew he had to be subtle about it. John would disapprove of him if he just flew (literally) into their conversation._

_  
He had to make sure John realized he was important enough to talk to. He circled a bit above them, trying to cast a shadow they'd notice. John looked up at him and smiled, waving politely, but then returned to talking with the other men. Then he began to flap his arms and levitate, too._

_  
Of course John could fly as well._

_  
The two of them were really made for each other._

  
~~~~~

  
The change of energy in the room was palpable, and Sherlock wrenched himself around on the mattress.

  
_Hello, John. Have you come for me too?_

  
John's face radiated anger, but Sherlock found redemption there. It didn't matter, the expression on his face. It simply meant that Sherlock had circled enough. He'd gotten John's attention. He uncoiled himself, relaxing onto his back.

  
~~~~~

  
"You have a girlfriend?"

  
"Yes I have." In actuality, Sherlock had forgotten that Janine was in his room until Mycroft tried to pry in to look for drugs. He'd gotten so occupied with his thoughts that he had simply left her there while he went out to look for another fix.

  
Of course, Sherlock was a meticulous planner, analyzing every possible outcome from every possible angle until he arrived at the complete, watertight answer. However his drug usage put a damper on that; it had been so long since he'd used that he'd forgotten how it gets, and as a result he hadn't thought his plans through completely; there was something about making John jealous with a lady friend, and using drugs so John would want to take care of him, and then Magnussen had popped up to add another layer, and then the Girlfriend Plan had gotten mashed together with the Drug Plan and then it all went to hell in a hand basket, with Janine left to spend the night in his room.

  
He was lucky that she simply wanted to use him as a way to score a book deal. He was luckier that she didn't realize he knew that. And they were both lucky she didn't actually expect him to have sex with her. On top of that, Janine was surprisingly perceptive about Sherlock's feelings for John.

  
A perfect girlfriend.

  
"Yes you have. A girlfriend." John was giving him an ambiguous expression.

  
"Yes. Yes, I'm going out with Janine, I thought that was fairly obvious."

  
"Well, yes but... I mean... you're in a relationship."

  
This was going pretty well, so far. Sherlock knew in his heart of hearts that this was going against being _selfless_ ; he knew he could love John much better than this, but it certainly wasn't the first time he hadn't approved of his own actions.

  
Sherlock knew he wasn't a good man, and as a result sometimes being selfless felt more like a charade than a noble cause.

  
"Yes I am. Me and Janine."

  
When he kissed her at the door, he tried to do it quickly.

  
~~~~~

  
"You shouldn't have lied to me."

  
Janine was poised by the door to Sherlock's hospital room. Her pretty brown eyes bored into his.

  
"I know what kind of man you are. We could have been friends."

  
Sherlock found he was unable to say anything. Was it that obvious?

  
He reached over and turned down the dial on his morphine drip.

  
~~~~~

  
“I’m not a villain, I’m a businessman! Acquiring assets!”

  
Sherlock’s eyes were wide and unblinking, trying to formulate a plan. Magnussen had Mary, which means he also had John.

  
 _Look how you care for John Watson, your damsel in distress._

  
Sherlock grabbed the gun from John’s coat pocket and fired before he could stop himself.

  
Dropping to his knees, he heard John’s cry.

  
 _Oh Christ, Sherlock!_

  
~~~~~

  
Sherlock Holmes stood on a tarmac facing the man he loved for the last time.

  
He was being shipped away and for all intents and purposes, executed for being selfless. It wasn't fair.

  
But through it all, he couldn't bring himself to blame John. It wasn't John's fault; he just fell in love.

  
Just like Sherlock.

  
"John, there's... something I should say. I've always meant to say it and I never have..."

  
What could he say now? What could he possibly say to fix things? There was nothing. If he said _I love you, John Watson_ , John would either not understand, which would be painful, or crack a joke, which would be even more painful.

  
But oh, if he could just see John smile once again. If he could see that beautiful face light up with a smile and know that he, Sherlock, was the one who put it there.

  
"...Sherlock is a girl's name."

  
John's shoulders shook with laughter and his teeth made an appearance as his lips parted to let out a guffaw.

  
Sherlock's heart melted and spilled out of his ears and eyes and mouth with such ferocity that he wondered how John wasn't able to see it.

  
He quickly calculated probable outcomes to hugging John and decided there was a very real possibility he'd simply latch on like some sort of monstrous Sherlock-barnacle and cause a scene. That would cause awkwardness and John would be left wondering long after Sherlock was dead.

  
So, selflessly, Sherlock put out his hand.

  
John shook it heartily. Sherlock tried to memorize the feeling of skin on skin before saying simply:

  
"The East Wind takes us all in the end."

  
~~~~~

  
 _Moon River, wider than a mile  
  
I'm crossing you in style some day  
  
Dream maker, you heart breaker  
  
Wherever you're going, I'm going your way  
  
_

_Two drifters, off to see the world  
  
There's such a lot of world to see  
  
We're after the same rainbow's end, waiting, round the bend  
  
My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me_


End file.
